


The Art of The Double-Team

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Jealousy, Multi, Spitroasting, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-20
Updated: 2011-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-21 14:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not his fault that the two guys he’s in a whatever with are both possessive bastards or that people mistake his naturally friendly nature for flirting. Or that, when it comes right down to it, Jensen and Misha are always just looking for an excuse to play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of The Double-Team

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the bottom!Jared comment fic meme on LJ

The day has been long and relatively miserable, grey clouds hanging overhead like the cold, wet air needed an extra dash of oppressiveness. The intermittent drizzle has been messing up shots and forcing them to switch things all around for continuity. Worst of all, it meant that the outside shoot they had planned for today had to be cancelled, instead leaving Jared to go emo it up on a motel set while Jensen and Misha got to be off somewhere pressing up against each other under the pretenses of working out their fight choreography.

  
 _Worst of all_ because evidently Jared’s a ninth grade girl or some shit.

  
Christ! He’s a grown man, for crying out loud! He can be away from his… whatever they’re referring to themselves as these days, for a couple of hours without getting mopey and depressed. Really.

  
Which is why, in the spirit of not goading his balls into packing up and walking out on him, he’d made it his mission today to make the new PA, Traci, feel at home. It can be hard coming into an established crew like theirs, so it was only right to do whatever he could to make her feel welcome. He may have done a little too good of a job of it, though, based on the looks he gets as he stamps up the steps to his trailer and finds Jensen and Misha waiting for him on the couch. He knows those looks, and if he were a smarter – or much, much dumber – man, he’d be running right now.

  
What he does instead is pull the door shut behind him, surreptitiously flipping the lock, even though the only two people on set who’d come barging in on him unannounced have already done so.

  
“Hi,” Jensen says, jaw ticking just enough to mark the smile on his face as a lie.

  
“Hi,” Misha echoes. Jared’s seen cats watch mice with less intent.

  
“Hi?” he replies, fairly sure he hadn’t actually intended for that to come out as a question. No one could blame him for being nervous, not after all of his vast, firsthand experience with _those looks_.

  
Aiming for something a little more calm and in control, Jared heads over to the fridge to grab himself a beer. He holds the bottle up in offering but both of the other men just shake their heads, so he pops the cap and distracts himself for a few meager seconds swilling down about half of the frosty contents. They’re both still staring at him when he finishes, self-consciously licking the lingering taste off of his upper lip.

  
He ends up making a loud smacking sound with his mouth just out of an itchy need to fill he silence. It’s completely unfair that they know how to play him like this. Completely unfair that there’s two of them.

  
“So how was y’alls day?” he breaks down and asks after a minute that feels like forever. The two of them shift, share a glance that says things Jared doesn’t quite catch, and then Jensen’s standing, casual, like there’s nothing behind it all. No more than when he saunters over and takes the beer bottle out of Jared’s hand, knocks back the rest even though Jared fucking asked him if he wanted one not two minutes ago. And even though he’s not actually standing any closer than he was when he took the beer, as the bottle thunks hollowly onto the counter, Jensen is suddenly _right there_ , taking up all of the room Jared was using to breathe.

  
“It was fine,” his co-star shrugs easily, not even close to matching the dare in dark green eyes, “How was yours?”

  
Jared has to take a moment to rewet his lips because now Jensen has leaned in that little bit extra so that their noses just brush, head angled so it would barely take anything for Jared to push into a kiss, and his mouth has gone bone dry.

  
“Um, fine. It… we got through the scene. Supposed to pick back up with, um,” Jared loses the thread of what he was saying as Misha gets up, still hanging back, lounging against the wall as he watches them, “The, um, the outside shots. Tomorrow.” He can only assume that came out something like coherent because Jensen makes an assenting hum and closes the space between them even more.

  
It’s Misha who answers, “Yes, we heard about that. We heard a number of things, actually.”

  
“Heard you were awful friendly with the new PA,” Jensen adds, a silky rasp as his lips drag against Jared’s. He finds himself moving with it unconsciously, the tip of his tongue darting out to catch a taste of the words as they form.

  
This is the game, and Jared’s losing badly. Who can last the longest, who can make their argument stick. Not that Jared’s argument isn’t good – excellent – winnable, because he honestly wasn’t hitting on Traci. It’s not his fault that the two guys he’s in a _whatever_ with are both possessive bastards or that people mistake his naturally friendly nature for flirting. Or that, when it comes right down to it, Jensen and Misha are always just looking for an excuse to play.

  
Staying clear headed is the problem, especially when Misha finally decides to get in on the act.

  
He skirts around behind Jared, leaning up so his next soft exhale tickles against Jared’s neck, over his ear. Shivering is as good as giving away a little piece of his leverage, but Jared can’t help himself, not sandwiched between the two of them, so close and yet not quite there.

  
Jensen’s hands drag along his sides, up his belly and across his chest, muscles bunching reflexively under the touch. Misha’s slip around his hips, lingering low at the front, just above the waistband of his jeans. The jolt when Jensen’s fingers pinch at his nipples, twist them up to hard peaks, is almost stunning, followed immediately by the sharp sting of Misha’s teeth digging in at his earlobe. He’s left gasping into Jensen’s mouth, moaning when Misha’s hands slide down to frame where his cock is thickening up fast against his thigh. The slick heat of Jensen’s tongue teases against his own, pulling back before Jared really gets a feel of it.

  
“Well, Jay?” Misha murmurs, sultry-low against his ear, “Were you a bad, bad boy?”

  
Jared’s groan comes out more of whimper, trying to push forward against Jensen and back against Misha all at the same time; desperate for something, anything.

  
“I didn’t, I wasn’t… Please.”

  
It’s way too early to be begging, but he’s already gone and done it now. Jensen’s hand molds to the curve of Jared’s jaw, tilting him in for another almost-kiss that has him panting. “Please what, baby?”

  
He can feel the release of pressure as the button on his jeans is popped, zipper dragging down painfully slow to absolutely no avail because the warmth of Misha’s hands slide away as soon as the fabric’s undone. Instead he gets the tease of those nimble fingers underneath the hem of his shirt, moving around the back to dip down below the band of his boxers, trace along the curve of his ass. Against his will, his hole clenches around nothing at all, practically begging for the hot push Misha’s still denying him.

  
All Jared manages is another pathetic sound in response, arching back against the too light touches working his pants and underwear to his thighs. His whole body is thrumming with need, already revved up so high when they’ve hardly even done anything to him yet, and still there’s a price to just giving in like this. He has his pride, damnit! And at least some vague form of dignity. Growing vaguer as the hand Jensen’s not using to hold Jared’s mouth in place trickles down to brush against the base of his newly exposed dick, just barely touching the rigid flesh like he’s coaxing it when Jared’s pretty sure that getting harder is a physical impossibility.

  
“Please what, Jared?” Misha parrots. Jared can goddamn hear him smirking and there’s not a fucking thing he can do about because right then is when the two of them – swear to God they have some kind of psychic link – spring their trap. Misha’s finger – fucking finally – pushes into the cleft, finding the hot, hidden pucker there like he has a map and applying just enough pressure to sink in the tiniest bit. Jensen chooses the same moment to really wrap his hand around Jared’s hard-on, giving him quick, light strokes that would make a person with actual self-control lose their mind. Jared doesn’t stand a chance.

  
His “Goddamnit,”gets muffled around Jensen’s lips since he doesn’t really bother to stop eating at that lush mouth as he grumbles it. In his defense – _Jensen’s mouth_. Also, _Misha’s mouth_. Jesus, _Misha’s mouth_.

  
Jared’s knees almost go out from under him as Misha’s tongue slicks hot and sudden over his hole. One broad, flat swipe and it’s pushing up, in, at the same time that the hands on his hips – who the fuck even cares who they belong to right now – urge him down to his knees.

  
His face ends up pressed against the front of Jensen’s sweatpants, cloth hot from the thick swell of Jensen’s cock underneath and the gasped sounds of pleasure Jared loses as Misha fingers him open relentlessly. The sharp, bright surge of pain from the grip Jensen’s got on his hair helps distract from the constant dull burn as the knot of digits working his rim goes fast from the easy push of one to two to three with no chance to breathe in between. His cock is leaking steadily, a filthy drool of precome sliding down the shaft, dripping onto the carpet.

  
Mercilessly, Jensen grinds against his open mouth, already going to be bruised red and swollen and they haven’t even gotten to the main event yet. There might be something wrong with him that the thought of that – of walking back out in front of the crew with the kind of dark, puffy lips that only a really thorough face-fucking can provide – sends a molten thrill up his spine, but like fuck does Jared care. He’s so far past the point where there’s anything but this that he can hardly breathe around the need to be used singing through his blood.

  
He nearly loses it right then, all over the floor, when the wad of fingers Misha has shoved up in him stab at his prostate. Jared’s vision blurs out on a cascade of white sparks and he feels his body try to jackknife, but the release doesn’t come; stuck out there on the edge of the Earth with nothing to keep him anchored but Jensen’s fingers in his hair and Misha’s on his hip, every other point of contact stolen away as they just let him hang there, strung out and empty. Somewhere the two of them have some kind of playbook for this shit and as soon as Jared can remember how to move again, he’s going to make it his mission in life to find it and burn it.

  
“Who do you belong to?” he hears Misha growl from behind him and again he doesn’t mean to, but he shudders all the way down to his marrow for it.

  
“You.” Jared feels his mouth form the shape but there’s not enough air behind it to really count it as a word. “You, you, only you,” he tries again to moderate success, but by now Misha and Jensen are pushed in close enough that they’re bound to have caught it.

  
The heat of them radiates over every inch of his body, Jensen down on his knees now to, holding Jared back stiffly with a commanding grip on dampening, product-shiny strands. His eyes are stuck at half mast, dick standing at attention, wetting his shirt with precome – that’s going to suck to explain to wardrobe – and it feels like nothing so much as worship, kneeling before his own personal altar. Or between it, as the case may be.

  
“That’s right,” Misha croons, up against his ear again as if Jared wasn’t already flailing inside of his skin with over-under-stimulation, “Our boy. Our bitch.” It’s the confidence in his voice, the proprietorship in his touch as he strokes a knuckle over Jared’s cheekbone, the exposed column of his throat, that really cranks Jared’s internal thermostat. Because it’s true. Any way you slice it, any name you want to call it, Jared belongs to the two of them, and there’s really nothing more he wants in the world.

  
“Yessss,” he hisses out, an affirmation none of them really needs. It earns him a deep chuckle from Jensen, a playful nip to his chin.

  
“Good,” says Misha and Jared almost misses, “Take it like a good boy,” he gets so wrapped up in the wet, blunt heat parting his cheeks. He doesn’t have a chance to contemplate anything beyond that, though, because that press sinking deeper, steady and molasses-slow until he’s certain that he can’t possibly survive this, that Misha’s cock has swallowed up all the space inside of him.

  
The soft cotton of Misha’s workout pants against his ass feels abrasive, too much when he’s so aware of everything, entire existence narrowed down to the thick flesh splitting him open and the slightly rough hands pushing up under his shirt, caressing his thighs, the heady musk of sweat still all over the two of them from running their choreography, his own getting mixed up in there too as everything about him that’s not directly related to these moments, these men, who they all are together, seeps out through his pores. Then Misha pulls him back, makes him sit down all the way into the smaller man’s lap, onto his dick, and Jared’s blood ignites in his veins.

  
Dimly, he can hear the broken whine that spurs out of him as he lifts himself up along the shaft, pushes back down as the flared crown stretches his rim to take Misha all the way to the hilt again. He doesn’t really think about it; all worries about somebody overhearing, somebody knowing, long gone - nothing left in him but the drive to get fucked, to work out the energy pinging wildly through him and the heavy ache in his balls with a punishing rhythm that fills him to the brim over and over. The guys, though, they’re so good; all over this shit.

  
Misha grinds out something about Jensen giving him some incentive to shut up and then Jared’s being yanked forward by the back of the neck, lips painted slick and salty before he can spread them baby-bird wide and let Jensen’s dick feed into him inch by perfect inch. The swollen head hits the back of his throat, almost leaving him gagging except Jensen doesn’t let him, just pushes straight through it until Jared’s body has no choice but to accept what it’s being given.

  
The tempo of thrusts goes stuttered as the two of them try to find a middleground with Jared hanging uselessly between them, speared open and loving every second of it. Tears are streaming down his face to match the constant drizzle of precome leaking out of him like a faucet, cockhead scraping against the thin carpet maddeningly every few circuits as he rocks back in forth, fucked first by one, then the other. Jensen’s hands are in his hair again, toying with it absently as he cradles Jared’s head. Misha’s fingers are busy digging into his hips, skinning up to soothe over the length of his spine every so often.

  
He can feel it as they get close; Misha first, the roll of his hips going sloppy, then Jensen, hard flesh jumping against Jared’s tongue, hitching, frantic moans leaking out from above him. So much for keeping things quiet. Jared himself has been living on the razor’s edge for far, far too long but Misha’s been careful to only hit his sweet spot randomly, just enough to keep him on edge, and he needs both hands on the floor if he has a prayer of staying upright against the barrage of thrusts.

  
Behind him, Misha bucks in hard one last time, hands turning to vices on Jared’s hips, forcing him forward roughly onto the full length of Jensen as he feels the hot, pulsing spill inside of him. Jensen only lasts a handful of stroke longer, pumping his body erratically, grinding Jared’s lips against wiry curls as he holds him still and sets light fingers over his throat to feel it when Jared feebly swallows the thick heat filling him up. Misha gets as far as brushing his fingertips over Jared’s cock before his muscles spasm and he following the other two into oblivion, spurting all over his jeans and belly and the floor.

  
Jared can hardly be blamed for getting a little lost in that – Jensen and Misha tend to have that effect – so he doesn’t feel too bad that the next thing he remembers with any particular clarity is being curled up against the side of the couch with his head on Jensen’s shoulder, Misha tucked in close behind him. His clothes are all back in their approximate places, a bit twisted around and slightly worse for wear, but still. He’s got that clammy feeling between his legs that means that somebody at least tried to clean him up, so possibly the wardrobe girls won’t hate him until the end of time. All in all, he’s feeling pretty fantastic about the world at large.

  
“Hi,” Jensen says quietly when he notices Jared’s eyes are open, giving him a soft kiss on the forehead just for good measure.

  
Misha echoes it with his own, “Hi,” and a nuzzle to the hinge of Jared’s jaw.

  
His own return comes out more of a garble of syllables than an actual word, but it makes them both laugh, which is just as good.

  
His mouth feels hot, heartbeat a simmer underneath the skin to match the tenderness in his backside but it all just feels kind of good at the moment. He’ll make them run him a nice soaking bath later as an apology. He doesn’t answer when Jensen asks him what he’s smiling about, just turns it into a smirk and buries his face against Jensen’s neck.

  
So yeah, alright, maybe Jared lost this round, maybe was always going to, because at the end of the day, losing this game is still a hell of a lot like winning.


End file.
